


The Mask You Wear

by Volsura



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, Non-specific Lavellan, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volsura/pseuds/Volsura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 20:41 Evolved. After publishing his tell-all book about his affiliation with the Champion and “officially” retiring from masked heroics, Varric Tethras likes to think he’s only watching the upstart team patrolling the streets of New Haven from a distance rather than involving himself personally. But they really have everything; political intrigue, secret identities, life-threatening missions. Not to mention that coy young thief who dances circles around Curly every other night. Can’t make that shit up.</p>
<p>Modern day AU in which the Inquisition is a league of superheroes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Haven

Perhaps it’s a testament to Kirkwall’s outstanding crime rate, but Cullen can’t remember the last time he saw so many people casually walking the streets at night. Or maybe the residents of New Haven just like to spend all their time in below freezing weather. The motorcycle he borrowed tonight is getting him around quickly enough, but the more he rides with his bag of gear on his back the more anxious he gets. So far, two of his designated changing spots were too busy when he rode past them. The third one was probably empty enough for his purposes, but he wants to be on the safe side tonight. He needs the practice.

According to local legend, the original Haven was home to Andraste’s remains and one of the last known dragon cults before both of them were destroyed some untold centuries ago. While the truth is probably more boring than that, the pilgrims who settled in thereafter rebuilt the town from the ground up, until it grew into the sleepless concrete jungle that it is today. In recent years, it’s been home to one of the biggest medical conventions in Thedas, attracting top doctors from all over the continent. It’s also the only major city in Ferelden that has remained neutral in the mage conflict. Which means in about a week, Prime Minister Justinia will arrive to mediate for representatives of each side.

Change point number four is completely empty, the snow on the pavement unmarred with footprints and tire tracks. Leaving the motorcycle on the side of the street, he heads into the long alley between an abandoned bike shop and a Rivaini restaurant that recently went out of business. He presses _start_ on a stopwatch on his phone, unzips his bag like he’s in a race, and starts to undress.

 

Most scientists agree the Veil did not exist forever. The evidence is everywhere: from the composition of the Veil itself, to the way early lifeforms evolved, to the fossil content found in geological records all over the world. Thanks to the people who dedicated their lives to studying it, they were steadily learning more, as abstract and indiscernible as it is now. Even today, the exact science of the Veil isn’t fully understood.

What’s also apparent is that the Veil has grown stronger over time. Thousand-year old art depicts mages—people who could reach beyond the Veil, bring forth tails of fire and walls of ice at will. As the Veil expanded, their access to magic weakened. Science and industry emerged to do the work magic could no longer perform. Until twelve years ago, mages were thought to be a relic of a time long past. The strengthening of the Veil had to be as immutable as the moons orbiting ever closer to each other, inch by inch.

 

Five minutes and twenty seconds. He’d prefer to keep it under five, but he at least knows he can change into uniform in a bind. With methodical hands, he sends a grappling hook into the tall brick above. The rush of flying into the air still dizzies him somewhat, but it gets easier each time.

The suit has taken some getting used to. It somehow weighs less than his old agent armor, which wasn’t designed for close-range combat. He’d prefer black instead of dark reds and golds, and the fur lining is a bit excessive, but they don’t stand out as much as he thought they would. There are various gadgets built into it that were designed to complement his abilities, but the only ones he’s mastered so far are the ones that have little to do with his training.

He lands firmly on the ground next to the motorcycle. Normally he would just use the suit to travel alone, but he needs to be prepared for his appointment.

 

It’s become one of those get-to-know-you questions: What was your first dream like? Perhaps it’s so poignant because it was such an altering event. Even the dwarves, who remained unchanged, felt its effects. The question isn’t really _what was your first dream like_ , it’s more _who were you before it happened?_

He doesn’t like thinking about the person he was before then. He never knows if he should feel relieved or mournful that he’s not that young, hopeful person anymore.

There are still many people who believe it was some sort of message from the Maker. Depending on the person, it’s either a message of forgiveness or a message of condemnation. In spite of his complicated relationship with Him, Cullen doesn’t want to believe the Maker is that callous.

 

The person he arranged to meet is standing on the top of the large MG building, right on schedule for once. In the darkness, he can’t perfectly make out the man’s face, but he doesn’t need to. He’d know that silhouette anywhere.

“Varric,” says Cullen with a nod.

The dwarf steps into the light and flashes a toothy grin. “Curly, how are you—”

“ _Don’t_ call me that while I’m in uniform.”

Varric holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, now. I didn’t even use your real name. What could any spies and wire taps possibly gather from that?”

“It wouldn’t be that difficult for someone to dig into your past, ask old acquaintances. All it takes is one mistake.”

“Your particular brand of paranoia will give your identity away long before my nicknames will, trust me.” Varric crosses his arms. “And by the way, it’s called a costume, not a uniform.”

He knows a useless argument when he hears one. “Let’s not keep the others waiting.”

“Do I get to ride on your back?”

Cullen holds out one arm in lieu of reply.

“Come on. Just once? I worked hard for that suit.”

“Your girlfriend was the one who built it.”

“My point exactly.”

“Varric,” he says curtly.

Varric _tsks_ , but he doesn’t look too broken up about it. “All right, all right. But I get to drive the motorcycle.”

“It belongs to the Seeker.”

“Next time, then,” Varric says, and walks over so Cullen can put a secure arm around him.

With a grappling hook stuck firmly to the roof, he swings them both down the forty stories. As he nears the pavement, he drops Varric on the ground safely and uses the momentum from the angle down to hop onto the motorcycle nearby while Varric whoops in excitement, climbing behind him soon afterward. Cullen tries to tune out the looks from pedestrians and drivers who have stopped in the middle of the street to stare.

 

When the dreams came back, people of all ages and backgrounds began to show signs of magical ability. Along with most of the nations of Thedas, Orlais and Ferelden passed legislation requiring these new mages to turn themselves in to local law enforcement, until doctors and researchers could find a way to suppress it.

It was that knee-jerk reaction, that well-intentioned attempt at damage control, that led unequivocally to the existence of masked supers. Apostates, living anonymous double-lives. At first they were little more than glorified criminals, terrorizing the streets at night in the name of anarchy or retaliation against a system that failed them. Others resolved to protect the innocent, to show the world that mages were worthy of its trust.

In short order, people without any magical ability joined the fray on both sides. The southern nations of Thedas founded the International Bureau of Magical Affairs, to combat magic using the traditional practice of lyrium ingestion. Agents are known more colloquially as templars, after the ancient Order that started the practice.

 

Cullen tries not to ask too many questions of Sister Nightingale. Her secrets are almost a part of her identity, and he’s sure there are things she doesn’t tell even her closest confidants. The true purpose of the building above their secret base is one such mystery. With a press of a button on the bike’s handle, part of the building’s wall slides into the side of the garage, clearing a tunnel for them.

Whatever this underground facility was used for before must have been relatively expansive; the parking lot at the bottom has at least a hundred spaces, and the office beyond the keypad-protected door has nine separate rooms, all relatively empty. The office they’re looking for is at the end of the long hallway. Once they reach their destination, he knocks twice and enters.

It’s not until he’s showing in an outsider that Cullen realizes how rudimentary their base must look. In truth, it’s nothing but a long table with a phone, several high barstools cluttered around it, and a whiteboard illuminated with dim fluorescent lights. Standing around the table are two women already in costume, quietly discussing something back and forth. The Seeker of Truth, as she’s been called for many years now, leans with her hands on either side of a pile of documents, dressed in a suit padded generously with kevlar. Much like Cullen, her head is uncovered save for a tightly-sealed black mask over her eyes. Nightingale has a talent for finding the worst-lit spot in any room, but he can still make out the pointed beak of her mask behind her hood.

The Seeker pauses her conversation as they enter. “Good evening, Commander. … And Varric.”

“Ah, this brings me back,” Varric says, appraising the room. “I’m almost expecting the Champion and the crew to come barreling in.”

“Save the name-dropping for later. We have work to do.”

“I presume there is no need for introductions,” Nightingale says. “Our other associate is on speakerphone.”

From the landline, Josephine Montilyet’s voice chimes in. “ _Hello!”_

“Well, good.” Varric takes a seat on a barstool and props his legs on the table. “I hope you dragged me from Kirkwall for a good reason.”

“Have a care, Varric,” the Seeker says with an edge to her voice. “This request came from Prime Minister Justinia herself.”

Varric lets out a low whistle. “Governments are sponsoring supers now? Doesn’t Orlais have their own publicly-recognized agency for this sort of thing?”

“ _We’re in Fereldan territory and the Prime Minister is supposed to be coming here to negotiate in good faith,_ ” says Josephine. “ _Her administration assumed—correctly, in my opinion—that quietly organizing a task force to assess the area was better than trying to explain to the municipal government why Orlais is sending agents to a nonaligned city._ ”

The Seeker places a folder down onto the table, open to a section full of blurry polaroids of elves in masks. “And thank the Maker she did. We’ve already discovered a crime ring in New Haven.”

“Seriously?” Cullen sighs. “We only just got here.”

“ _Our presence probably had nothing to do with it,_ ” Josephine says. “ _As far as we can tell, their main goal is equality between elves and humans._ ”

Nightingale braces an arm on the table. “Seems noble enough.”

“Unless it turns into another Justice situation,” Cullen says, stifling the snarl curling his lip.

Justice was the alter ego of Anders, an extremist who showed his displeasure with the Mage Protection Act by blowing up the Kirkwall courthouse. Mages everywhere were looked upon with suspicion after that.

“We know they’re not above grand theft to fund whatever it is they’re doing,” the Seeker says. “Three businesses have already been hit, all by unknown elven supers. The only thing we do know is that the people spearheading the movement are going by the names Dread Wolf and Felassan.”

“Mages?” Cullen asked.

“If Felassan is a mage, he hasn't shown it yet.” Nightingale looks down at the dossier neutrally. “There are rumors the Dread Wolf is, but not much is known about him. Apparently he keeps his identity secret even from members of his own faction. Until we have evidence to the contrary, I think it’s safe to assume the Dread Wolf is the true leader of the group.”

“ _The Dread Wolf is a figure from ancient elven mythology. He was known as the trickster god,_ ” says Josephine. “ _I’ll have my people research it. Aliases reveal more than you might think._ ”

“Is there a chance they have any connection to the AML or the Templars?” asks the Seeker.

“New Haven is a big city,” Cullen says, “but there have been virtually no accounts of supers in the area until the AML sent representatives here.”

Nightingale crosses her arms behind her back. “Templars came to New Haven at the same time. They’re just as likely to be involved.”

A stiff silence follows.

“Well, I feel like I’ve contributed a lot to this discussion,” says Varric. “You brought me here to shoot exploding bullets at people, right?”

“We brought you to be a part of this team.” The Seeker rounds the table, stopping just short of where the dwarf is sitting. “You and the Commander were both in Kirkwall. You both have experience dealing with these people.”

“Curly has experience dealing with those people. I have experience working unpaid night shifts as a suped-up tagalong.”

“That’s not far off from what we’re doing right now,” says Nightingale. “Apart from the unpaid part.”

“Wait, you guys get paid?” Varric takes his feet off the table and sits up. “Why didn’t you start with that?”

“ _We wanted to afford you_ some _dignity._ ”

The Seeker clears her throat. “Consider this your formal invitation to join the Inquisition as the Marksman.”

He shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve retired that mask for good, I’m afraid. If you need my help, I’ll have to come up with a new identity. New name, new digs. The works.”

“And a new weapon, I assume?” Cullen says.

“What? Are you crazy? No way. Bianca is coming with me to my grave.”

The Seeker groans. “Varric, if you keep using that gun, everyone will still know you’re the Marksman. You might as well just be him.”

“You seriously underestimate my powers of deception.”

A ping comes from Josephine’s line. “ _Here’s your chance to prove them,_ ” she says. “ _I just received an alert for a burglar alarm from Pierre-Marie Jewelers downtown. Apparently the culprit is a super._ ”

“Fun. I’m in.”

“Absolutely not,” the Seeker says. “You don’t even have a disguise.”

“I have a ski mask in my bag,” Cullen offers.

She looks at him like he’s betrayed her.

“There you go,” Varric says. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Seeker. I’ll be your trusty sidekick tonight. Just call me the _Hider of Truth_.”

“I will literally call you anything before I call you that.”

  
⌽⌽⌽

 

The row of lights from the police cars littering the street outside Pierre-Marie can be seen from three blocks away. Cullen uses the trip as grappling practice, while the Seeker begrudgingly takes Varric on the back of her motorcycle.

Talking to the cops is inevitable at this point, so they approach at a safe distance.

The man who seems to be in charge turns around at his subordinates' beckoning. “More fucking masks.” He looks Varric up and down. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“I'm the Hider of—”

“He's… a work-in-progress,” the Seeker interjects.

As the cop puts his hands on his hips, Cullen realizes he’s seen his face before. A glance at the name badge confirms it: Lieutenant Dennet Marshall. “You know what? Fine. As long as you three don’t make it any worse, you can handle it.”

Cullen nods. “Of course. What’s the situation?”

“She’s a mage. That’s the situation.”

A mage. Of course. “Have you called for templars?”

“I’ve called everyone I know who has anything to do with a templar. I’d send smoke signals if I thought that’d help. No one’s coming in time. And we have no way of suppressing her magic.”

The Seeker steps forward. “I am the Seeker of Truth. I can subdue mages with a single thought.” It’s strange to hear her introduce herself to someone, especially the police. She’s practically a household name in Kirkwall and Val Royeaux.

“Well, she's also put some sort of paralyzing trap around every entrance into the place.” Dennet points to the front doors, which are lined with white glowing glyphs.

Cullen and the Seeker exchange a look. Even a mage who's simply non-malicious would use a freezing trap instead. With any luck, their thief is someone with a conscience.

“The Commander will take care of that,” the Seeker says with a glance back at Dennet.

He wishes she wouldn’t sound so confident on his behalf. He hasn’t tested his abilities since before he stopped using. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll see what I can do.”

The brights from the police cars give uneasy exposure to the group as they walk up to the shattered, run-down entrance. As he holds out his arm, the gold details of the suit seem garish in the light. Definitely should have gone with black. He concentrates and the glow on the ground slowly fades, so he has at least enough residual lyrium left in him to dispel glyphs. The song is still there, but it’s slower and distorted. It leaves his arm buzzing, empty, as though his body is reaching for something that isn't there anymore.

He steps gingerly over the broken glass and pieces of wall, and enters the darkness of the store, Varric and the Seeker close behind him.

The place isn’t as trashed as he expects. It’s not difficult to tell where she’s been, but the holes in the displays are neatly cut through, not smashed, and there’s a trail of circular glass pieces leading to the figure standing in the back. The lights are out and she’s facing away from them, but he can make out her protruding, pointed ears and the general length of her hair. The lower half of her face is obscured by a bandana. She’s holding a simple rod-shaped staff in one hand, probably made of steel, with faintly glowing mechanical runes installed along its side. The other hand is packing an open backpack with handfuls of jewelry from a display table.

Holding a hand up, Cullen barks, “Stop!”

The elf freezes, snapping her head toward his voice like she’s surprised someone’s there with her at all. She lifts the hood of her jacket over her head so that only a sliver of her face is visible.

“Who are you?” the Seeker demands.

Varric holds a hand out. “Seeker, please. Let me do the talking.” She glares so hard at him her mask starts to wrinkle. “You got an alias, Miss?”

The elf cocks her head. “An alias? No. No alias.” She starts to zip up her backpack on the counter.

“Well, if she’s not going to come up with a super name for herself, I might as well do it myself. I have something of a talent for it, or so I’m told.”

Cullen gives him a look. “We don’t give names to bad guys. Don’t encourage her.”

“What are you talking about? The bad guys are practically the ones who started the alter ego thing!”

“Enough,” the Seeker says. “This ends now.” She holds up an arm.

It’s as though time stops, and everyone takes in a breath at once. The elf continues to stand frozen in place. After a moment, she looks behind herself, like perhaps they meant to address a different thief. “... What are you doing?”

Cullen looks over. “Seeker?”

Her hand falters in front of her. She brings it up to her face, flexing her fingers. “It’s not working,” she murmurs.

A hundred thoughts go through Cullen’s mind at once. He hasn’t been off lyrium for that long, but he can’t be sure he can dispel an entire person’s magic anymore. He could risk it and throw up a holographic shield if it fails, but the mage seems to be averse to violence so far. They have to use that to their advantage.

“Listen. We’re going to give you one chance to drop the bag and walk away.” He pauses, reaching in his memory for Josephine's threat de-escalation training. “What's your name?”

She’s still standing with knees slightly bent, cautious and ready to attack at any moment. “Why would I tell you that?”

“A name I can call you, then. You can call me the Commander.”

The elf’s free hand drifts off to the side to clutch at the display table. Her staff arm stays steady in front of her. “Why are you talking to me?”

“Because you have a choice. I’m willing to give you a second chance, if you want it. I don't believe you want to hurt anyone.”

“I don't _need_ to hurt anyone.” The gem embedded into the end of her staff starts to crackle with energy.

Cullen clenches a fist around the taut material of his glove, pulse pounding in his hand, quietly preparing his response. “You don't want to do that.”

“It won't hurt. You just won't feel anything from the neck down for a while.” Her arm does the telltale rear backwards. He sends a quick prayer to the Maker that he's strong enough.

“Commander, now!”

Cullen holds out his hand, and the spell dissipates as it flies toward them. He reaches it out further, and he can feel in the bones and the veins of his hand how the magic leaves the elf as well. She doubles over like she's been kicked. He's heard twenty times over that the extraction doesn't hurt, but some mages can get the wind knocked out of them if they aren't used to it.

Her face is hidden in the dark folds of her disguise. He only sees the tremble in her arms as she looks up and says breathlessly, “ _Templar._ ”

Just as fast as she’s said it, her arm shoots to her side and grabs the backpack.

“Engage!” The Seeker shouts, and Cullen steps into a sprint after the elf.

It doesn’t take long for the Seeker to catch up with her. Unlike most supers, she prefers to fight close-range, her lyrium-infused gloves heating up or sharpening into spikes sharp as knives at her will. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s happening in the dark, but the elf’s staff somehow flies into the Seeker’s head, and he can hear the thump of the metal against her skull as she goes down.

“Whoa, Seeker!” Varric says, skidding to a halt.

“Don’t worry!” she scolds, clutching half of her face in one hand. “Keep going after her!”

The thief’s halfway up a giant stepladder he hadn't noticed in the dark when he grabs the backpack hanging off her shoulder. She wriggles around herself, trying to shake him off, and he grabs one of her wrists to pull her to the floor. As soon as he touches her, she shrieks at the top of her lungs. He flinches back on reflex, and before he can figure out what's happened she's climbed into the ceiling and replaced the ceiling tile behind her. He tries to climb up after her, but her weight is bearing down on the tile too hard for him to do anything.

From below, Varric cocks his gun. “I haven't seen that trick used in a while. I'm kind of impressed.”

“Seeker, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says dismissively. “Let’s focus on the apostate. There are no exits up there. The only way onto the roof has been blocked with paralyzing traps. Does she intend to hide?”

“There’s no way the ceiling was big enough for her. She must have carved out part of it beforehand with magic.”

A series of muffled banging noises comes from the ceiling.

“What's that sound?” asks Varric.

Cullen narrows his eyes. Through the tiles he can hear what sounds like crumbling debris. “She's breaking a hole through to the roof.”

“I thought you drained all her magic.”

“It can regenerate over time, but not fast enough for her to blast through the ceiling.” Cullen’s feet seem to realize where he needs to be before he does. “Watch the roof from both sides. I'm going to meet her up there.” He places a hand ready on the grappling hook at his hip.

If he weren’t so focused on the thief, he might be more unsettled at the sight of the police outside, training dozens of guns at the entrance. There’s no time to dwell on it, or to explain to them what’s happening, so he pivots and sends his line into the upper wall of the store. As he vaults over the railing, he can see where air and dust are starting to escape from the floor of the roof.

An entire piece pops off, and she pulls herself out. It doesn’t take long for her to notice his approach. “Ugh, seriously? Would you just give up already?”

“You know, you could’ve just used the roof hatch, if you hadn’t set glyphs all around it.”

Instead of running away, she drops her backpack and starts running toward him. As he throws up a holo-shield to stop whatever attack she’s got coming at him, she flips her entire body forward on her staff, braces both feet on his blocking arm, and kicks off of him so hard it sends him reeling back. Before he can recover, a flare from her staff whisks through him, knocking him off his feet.

He rolls himself over, but something pushes his shoulder back to the ground. As he looks up, he realizes it’s her foot.

“You weren’t being serious about giving me a second chance, were you? There’s no way I can go back now.”

His hand grips at her ankle when she starts pressing down. “There’s always time to go back,” he grits out. “Whatever the Dread Wolf is offering you, it’s not worth giving up your freedom.”

The mention of the Dread Wolf visibly catches her off guard. It’s clear she wasn’t expecting him to know that much. He grabs for the boot that isn’t pinning him to the ground and tugs. Once they're both on the floor, it's almost too easy. Hand-to-hand combat is second-nature to him now, and he pins her down with hardly any effort, funneling a constant dispelling through his fingertips so she won't have access to her magic for even a moment.

He wonders distantly why she’s gone pliant and quiet underneath him, until he takes a moment to consider their position—he’s essentially straddling her, holding her wrists above her head so that he’s hovering from above. He can properly see her eyes from this close, the way her eyelashes lower to look down her nose, even as she lies below him.

From deep in her throat comes her soft reply: “How free do you think I am?”

Cullen can’t quite concentrate on any one thing. The next step in detainment is to push her onto her stomach and cuff her hands behind her back, but just the thought of it feels dirty, somehow. He’s had no problems detaining female apostates in the past; there should be no reason for him to think this way now. He looks down at his belt, mentally cataloging all the things Bianca put in the suit for this type of situation.

“Commander,” she says, “I want you to know something. And I’m only going to say this because you seem like a decent person.”

He shakes his head, tries to drown out her words and focus. He could try to cuff her from this position, but it would be less secure with her arms in front of her.

“I’m about to set you on fire.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

The smell of something like burning rubber hits him before he feels the heat on his back. Without another thought, he throws himself backward, pressing his back into the concrete in an attempt to snuff it out. Almost as quickly as it happens, it’s gone, and when he gets his bearings enough to check the scene, she and the backpack are nowhere in sight.

The only people he does see are the Seeker and Varric, climbing up the side of the building on what appears to be a large aluminium ladder.

“Commander!” the Seeker cries. “What happened?”

He turns from them and stares into the distance where his thief disappeared. “I got distracted. She momentarily set me on fire and got away.”

“Wow,” says Varric. “That’s pretty wild.”

Nightingale’s voice comes on over his radio. “ _Come in, Commander._ ”

He holds it up to his face and says, “Commander here.”

“ _Police are saying the situation’s been resolved. Report._ ”

“Target left the scene. No recovery. I’ll debrief when I get back.”

“ _Copy._ ”

The Seeker crosses her arms, scowling at the police slowly starting to disperse out front. “We should spread out. In case she appears again tonight.”

“Wait, wait. I’ve got a name for her: _Wildfire_.” Varric holds out his arms. “Eh? Eh?”

Cullen sees the moment when the Seeker decides she’s going to slap the back of Varric’s head. He stands there and lets it happen.

  



	2. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. These chapters always end up longer than I expect, and I had to spend a few days outlining some of the pasts, presents, and futures of this AU before I could progress further. Chapters will (in theory) be posted every week from now on. Big thank you to those who’ve commented.

The week when Prime Minister Justinia arrives in New Haven becomes a blur of meetings that serve more as formalities than anything else. In order to justify his daytime presence in the city, Cullen started posing as one of Justinia’s new bodyguards, so he has to attend every one of her public appearances, which can range from intriguing to so boring it tests his carefully-trained resolve.

Tonight, Justinia is guest to a soirée attended for the most part by Orlesian politicians and celebrities, which are among Cullen’s least favorite people to be around. But New Haven is closer to the Orlesian border than most Ferelden cities, and it’s bound to attract expatriates and tourists. Cassandra seems to hate the pomp and circumstance as much as he does, but she’s grown used to it over the past two decades. Leliana has no sympathy for him whatsoever, and delights in poking fun at his impatience whenever the opportunity arises. She also happens to be in charge of dressing them for these events, and as usual he’s been given a three-piece suit that feels too small for him. Whenever he points this out to her, she gets a self-satisfied look on her face and says, “That’s the point.”

As he leaves Cassandra's bathroom, tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves, he finds Cassandra lounging on her sofa, already dressed in her designer blouse and trousers and leafing through a book.

“Have you seen the way Varric describes his own alter ego? ‘Just then, I looked up to see the face of my savior. I knew him to be the one known as the Marksman, recognizing instantly the gorgeous design on his gun and impressive girth of his arms.’ How can anyone read this and not see it as the shameless narcissism that it is?”

Cullen does a double-take at the cover of the book. “How many times have you read that?”

“I…” Her eyes dart around the room. “... was only doing research on him. I was being _thorough_.”

“Right,” he says, fighting the smirk tugging at his mouth. “How thorough?”

“Don't you start. It was partly thanks to this book that Leliana and I even found out about his secret identity.”

He shrugs as if his body is trying to shrink away from her. “I know.”

“I'm serious,” she says, eyes like stone.

“Cassandra, we're agreeing.”

She doesn't look convinced. “Alright.”

“Speaking of Varric, will he be joining us tonight?”

With a long-suffering sigh, Cassandra shakes her head. “He flew back to Kirkwall yesterday to resume filming _Hard in Hightown._ ”

 _Hard in Hightown_ is the name of Varric's reality show.

“Leliana's not going to be happy about that,” he says.

“Varric was recruited for his experience with vigilantism, not for his celebrity.” She scowls down at her book, closing it and dropping it on the coffee table. “But he would have been helpful tonight, yes.”

“He would have been more helpful than me, at least.”

“Maybe a mage who is invulnerable to me will be in attendance, and you'll save the night for everyone.”

Cullen sits on the armchair across from her, leaning forward in his knees. “You're still thinking about the thief from last week?”

“Of course I am. She was the only one who's gotten away from us so far.” Cassandra looks down at her hand and clenches it into a fist. “My abilities didn’t work on her. That’s never happened before.”

“I know you can manipulate lyrium, but how does that work when it's in another person's bloodstream?”

“I can ignite lyrium inside them, but it’s so diluted that there's never enough there to go further than that. Strong enough to paralyze and interrogate, but not strong enough to kill.”

“Could something have happened that day that negated your powers?

She shakes her head. “My lyrium gloves still bent to my will.”

Cullen laces his fingers under his chin. “Then the only explanation is that she didn’t have any lyrium in her bloodstream.”

“A mage super who doesn’t use lyrium?” She huffs through her nose in frustration. “I can immobilize any mage or templar who has the slightest trace of lyrium in them. Either she’s never taken it, or…”

“Or?”

Cassandra looks up, her stare distant at the floor behind him. “In Val Royeaux, many apostates stopped taking lyrium in an effort to subvert me. What most of them didn’t realize is that lyrium takes months to completely flush out of a person’s system, as I’m sure you’re already aware.”

Cullen nods around his hands.

“We’ve only been in New Haven for two weeks. It’s impossible to know the Seeker of Truth would be here that long ago. Of course, mages don’t need lyrium to use magic, but if they’re laying traps and shielding themselves against bullets, their magic will run out quickly without it. An organization that steals six figures worth of merchandise with each job would be foolish not to invest in lyrium as part of their heists.”

“Maybe the Dread Wolf had a lot of forethought.”

Her smile is sharp and humorless. “The truth is rarely that convenient.”

  


⌽⌽⌽

  


The party is in someone's yacht whose name he already forgets, on the coast of Lake DuRellion. What looks like a bright golden blur from a distance becomes an amalgamation of numerous and ornate details. Thousands of red and pink Nevarran water lilies and bright yellow string lights line every inch of railing he can see, and a lighting effect casts a stark orange shine on the sides. The ramp leading inside has plush velvet carpeting and two rows of bow-tied servers on either side doing nothing aside from standing there and holding coats.

He's never seen such an Orlesian spectacle in his life.

Justinia walks with her Right and Left Hands beside her, wearing a more professional, pantsuit version of Leliana’s knee-length dress. He follows close behind, buttoning and unbuttoning the bottom of his suit jacket while his frostbitten face burns in the heat of the entrance hall.

Leliana has brought along a woman he’s never seen before as her plus one. According to Cassandra, she does this often, inviting guests that seem to have nothing to do with her. In all probability, it's a carefully planned, calculating move in the convoluted game known as Orlesian politics, and he’s glad to stay far away from it.

For the half hour before the yacht departs, he gets to stand beside the Prime Minister and act like a professional statue while people come up and greet her. Leliana makes small talk with her guest between glances at the faces still arriving. Cassandra, at least, has managed to escape elsewhere on the boat for the time being. They move at a glacial pace from room to room, hardly walking two steps before some dignitary showers Justinia with distinctions. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to participate, even if he can’t pass a single person without some pungent fragrance invading his senses.

When the yacht closes up and takes off, and it’s clear all the necessary introductions are out of the way, Justinia steps away to start touring the yacht in earnest. Cullen’s about to follow her out when he feels a tug on his shoulder.

“Not yet,” says Leliana.

He narrows his eyes. “Shouldn’t her personal guard be with her?”

“Don’t overthink it,” she says. “Tanner, would you be a dear and fetch a glass for me?”

Her companion nods and leaves without a word.

She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I have another agenda for this party.”

He could have guessed that. “Alright, what?”

“With so many people of influence, it shouldn’t be hard to find people sympathetic with the Inquisition’s goals. Perhaps future allies.”

“You’re trying to recruit someone? Here?”

“Where else? Until I can get in touch with the Warden, I need at least one contact with connections to powerful people. Preferably someone who can perform jobs with you.”

That's the news he's been dreading. He presses his mouth into a line, nodding at the ground. “She’s, ah… still missing, then?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” she says, and he doesn’t know whether she’s reassuring him or herself. “If anything actually happened to her, it would have been very dramatic and everyone would have known about it.”

“Of course.”

Leliana’s attention seems to be caught by something. “I’m going to introduce you to someone now.” That’s all the warning he gets before she leads him by the arm to the next room, which is top to bottom painted white and furnished with white loveseats and white refreshment tables. They make their way over to the giant marble statue of Maferath, where two elven women are standing.

He recognizes one of them as Briala Rasinan, the former partner of Valmont Industries turned whistleblower on the racial discrimination that was rampant throughout the business. It probably wouldn’t have been the international scandal it was without the allegations that Briala was in a relationship with the CEO.

The other woman appears younger, hair neatly pinned out of her face. Her dress flows into a loose skirt around her knees, much unlike the ironed trousers and pencil skirts of the guests around them.

“Briala,” Leliana says with affection, announcing their presence. “It’s been far too long.”

“Leliana,” the elf says with equal enthusiasm, “I was wondering when I’d get to see you again.”

He can already see the cogs turning in both of their minds, and he raises a tired eyebrow at the elven woman standing next to Briala, who shoots him a sympathetic smile in response.

“This is Miss Lavellan, my assistant,” Briala says. “Lavellan, this is Leliana.”

Leliana brings a firm hand around Cullen's shoulder, but not firm enough that it visibly wrinkles. “And this is Cullen, Justinia’s newest _bouclier humain_ , as they’re affectionately known.”

“He’s one of Leliana’s close associates,” Briala says in a pointed way.

Cullen isn’t sure how to take that, but he knows better than to correct her. “Nice to meet you,” he says, reaching out to shake hands.

Lavellan smiles warmly. “Yes, you as well.”

In response to nothing, Leliana looks behind herself. “Oh! That’s Tanner with the wine. Play nice without me,” she says, clapping Cullen on the arm.

He doesn’t see Tanner at all when he follows her line of sight, but she’s out of the room before he can think. And as he turns to face Briala again, he can’t help the feeling he’s been set up somehow.

The older woman leans on one leg and puts a hand on her waist. “You’re originally from Honnleath, are you not?”

He leaves his mouth open too long on his response, trying to figure out how or why Briala would ever find out such information. “I—yes.”

“How fortunate that you're so close to home again. Lavellan and her family just moved here from Wycome.” She doesn’t give much room for response before she continues. “I have to ask—and I’m sure you get this all the time—but how accurate was your portrayal in Varric Tethras’s memoir?”

It is a common question, and he gives her the common answer: “Well, I haven’t sued him yet.”

The women chuckle on cue, but the unpretty way Lavellan scrunches her face as she looks at her boss makes it look genuine.

“Lavellan, you’ve read _The Tale of the Champion_ , right?” Briala asks.

She shakes her head. “I actually haven’t.”

“That’s a first,” says Cullen.

Briala clicks her tongue. “You have homework this week. Anyone who’s mildly interesting should have a natural curiosity about the lives of supers.”

“That’s me. Terribly boring.” Lavellan smiles tight-lipped, but not without humor.

The corner of Cullen’s lip curls up. “Join the club.”

“Yes, you can be dull and incurious together.” A bemused sigh escapes Briala. “I was only asking because in his book, Varric wrote something to the effect that you get violent seasickness.”

He rubs at his neck. “Well. Riding a party yacht is worlds away from riding a ferry.”

“Of course. But if your head starts disagreeing with your eyes, I know the perfect remedy. It doesn't even involve magic, which I'm sure you'll appreciate.”

Her tone is just at the edge of a challenge. He’s not sure what Briala is playing at, but he doesn’t want to give her a reaction in any case. “You’ll be the first person I go to.”

“By all means. It won’t do to have Justinia’s guard hugging a toilet bowl.”

Cullen chances a look around his shoulder to spot Leliana poised in the Par Vollen-themed room like a hawk watching her easy pickings. “Well, I should be getting back to my babysitter now. It was a pleasure, ladies.”

Briala smiles in a way that makes her taller than she is. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He takes his leave through the crowd, wearing a face and a gait that says he has somewhere to be; he’s learned from experience that strange women and men tend to interrupt him otherwise. When he finds Leliana, she’s taking lazy sips of her flute of wine, leaning on a bronze statue of a half-naked Qunari, and Tanner is nowhere to be found.

He stops once they’re side by side, facing opposite directions. “If you were trying to use me as a distraction, you should have left me with someone who isn't a self-proclaimed lesbian.”

“There is something to be said for your aesthetic appeal, even from a nonsexual standpoint.”

He growls under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Thanks. Shouldn’t you be mingling for allies somewhere?”

“No need. Mission accomplished.”

Cullen turns to look at her properly. “You’ve already found someone?”

Leliana keeps her gaze toward one of the entrances. “Vivienne de Fer. She’s expressed on no uncertain terms her interest in helping the security of New Haven in any way she can. I guess her new show isn’t performing as well as she’d hoped.”

Vivienne de Fer found fame several years back for being the first mage cast in a stage musical who used magic as part of her performance. Nowadays she stays in the headlines for her controversial views on mage security, as well as her alleged relationship with her director, Bastien Ghyslain.

“Are you sure it’s wise to recruit another celebrity?”

“I have ways of ensuring she won’t sell us out for a publicity stunt.” Leliana’s face betrays nothing to the outside observer, and even her mouth moves with a ventriloquist’s care and precision. “She probably expects I’m in contact with Sister Nightingale. All I have to do is sustain the impression we’re on the sidelines of the Inquisition without being directly involved. Josephine can do the rest.” From across the room, Vivienne does a sweeping glance, catching his eye.

“The Inquisition won’t reveal their identities to the recruits?”

“Not immediately. Not until I have enough on them.”

Cullen takes a deep breath, watching unfocused as social circles form and dissolve in front of them. “Well, you’re certainly keeping yourself busy.”

“So are you.” As she takes a drink, Leliana peeks over her glass at the corner of the room where Briala and Lavellan are speaking in private. “Curious, that Briala would take in an unknown girl from the United Marches.”

“I thought she was keeping a low profile after the Celene scandal.”

“She is,” Leliana says. “But that doesn’t explain why she’s keeping a low profile in New Haven, of all places.”

“You think she’s with the Dread Wolf?”

“Possibly.” She purses her mouth, training her eyes on other people in the room with purpose. “I’ll talk about it more later. In the meantime, you should try to get more information from her assistant. Alone, this time.”

“You mean talk to her?” Cold nerves thrum in his fingers. “As in hold a conversation with her for more than two minutes?”

“Don’t focus on that. Just talk to her like you would talk to any girl in your private life.”

“You’re not very familiar with my private life, are you?”

Leliana smiles at him strangely. “You don’t want me to answer that.” Then, with a shove to his shoulder, “ _Go_. Madame Thibault put on her coat, which means Minister Cyril will be setting off the fireworks soon.”

“Fireworks?” he asks, but Leliana’s already long gone.

He takes his time moving through the boat, making sure to avoid anyone he recognizes from previous events for the way they wouldn't leave him alone. There's an unspoken understanding between Cullen and Leliana that whenever she gives him a social objective, he can take as long as he wants with it, whatever comfort that is for him. At the least, this can't be any worse than the time she told him to distract Solange Montbelliard so she could plant wiretaps in her guest room.

Finding Lavellan again is not hard; she’s moved to an open bar dedicated to pre-industrial Orlais, where various lanterns hanging different lengths from the ceiling warm the already rich reds and shimmering golds of the interior design.

Lavellan turns in her stool when she spots him out of the corner of her eye, huffing around her smile. “Did your boss ditch you, too?”

“What?”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been detached from the Prime Minister for a while. I assumed she ran off without you.”

“Something like that.” He takes a seat in the bar stool next to her. “I can't say I'm sorry to be away from it all, if just for a moment.”

“If Orlesian Ministers are a deal-breaker, you may want to rethink this job of yours.”

“Not a deal-breaker, just a nuisance. A thousand years ago, Orlesians wore masks anytime they appeared in public. Different fashion, same culture.”

“That's right. They still have masquerades,” she says with an easy grin. “But I understand. I work in the private sector, and even I've had to adjust to it.”

He clears his throat as soft as he can. “So you, ah… What do you do?”

She cracks that laugh, the one lacking the Orlesian poise that’s been grating on his nerves lately. “Well, let’s see. I go to NHU, major in communications. Assisting Briala is actually part of my internship.”

That grabs his attention. “So your whole family moved with you when you transferred schools?”

She runs a hand through her hair, narrowing her eyes in thought. “That probably sounds odd, doesn’t it? I guess it’s a cultural thing. My family’s from a Dalish clan. Packing up and moving everything to stay close to family is a time-honored tradition for us.”

The bartender checks on him, and he orders a beer without looking away.

“Now if you’re talking about hobbies, um…” She braces an elbow on the counter, drumming her fingertips over her mouth. “Well, I like to dance. That’s why I wore this dress. When Briala said I was going to attend a party, I thought there might be an opportunity, but...”

“Business moguls aren't known for their dance skill.” _And for that matter, neither are templars._

She nods gratefully at him for completing her thought as the bartender places his pint of Kondrat in front of him. “What about you? What do you like to do?”

He takes a long sip as he thinks. It's not often he reflects on what he does outside of work. Even if his day job is a front, all of the research he puts into the layout of New Haven and the recent trends in crime probably doesn't constitute leisure.

He knows he's taken too long to answer when she says, “Or you could tell me what you _don't_ like to do, if that's easier.”

“Sorry. I was just trying to think of the last thing I did that wasn’t related to work in some way.”

“How very Ferelden of you,” she says with her toothy grin. “What did you do before you joined the PM’s personal guard?”

The question doesn’t register until he remembers she hasn't read Varric's book yet. “Oh. I was in the IBMA in Kirkwall.”

She perks a brow. “Really? May I ask why you left?”

It’s hard to explain to someone who has no context for the Meredith situation, so Cullen gives her the short version: “The Marches started privatizing it. Templars should be a public service, not a business.”

“But the IBMA in Ferelden is still run by the government.”

He clears his throat. So she’s not clueless, then. “You’re right. There were other circumstances, too. It’s not the easiest job, on many levels.”

“I imagine not.”

“One of the guys here actually owns most of the private divisions.”

“Really?” She turns in her seat to look behind herself. “Where?”

Cullen moves closer and nods his head towards the group of suits sitting in a circle in the next section. “Black suit, gray tie. His name is Seth Amladaris. Apparently he also owns an engineering firm. Maker knows what he needs templars for.”

“No wonder you’ve been avoiding that half of the room,” Lavellan says, smirking up at him. From this angle, the fan of her eyelashes is longer when she blinks.

He lets out a nervous laugh and clears his throat again, too aware of how close she is. By the time he understands the joking implication that he’s only talking to her to avoid Amladaris, it’s too late to respond. Sometimes he forgets how bad he is at this.

Both at once, Leliana and Briala appear next to them, as if they’ve been waiting for the same cue.

“There you are,” says Briala, brushing something off her assistant's shoulder. “You just missed the most public meltdown of the night. Marchelette Gosselin ripped her dress.”

“She was crying?”

“No, but she visibly grimaced, which may as well be the same thing.”

Leliana has moved herself behind their stools so he has to turn halfway from the counter just to see her. Somehow she has managed to completely change her outfit. “So how are you two getting along?” she asks.

Lavellan and Cullen look to each other at the same time, and nervous laughter bubbles out of her as he shrugs. He’s never before felt such camaraderie with someone for not knowing what to say.

“She's still very new to the city,” Briala says. “I keep meaning to show her around, but my schedule is pretty tight these days.”

“Perhaps Cullen would be so kind as to give her a tour,” Leliana says, looking at him. “The Merchant’s Guild Headquarters, perhaps? That’s the go-to tourist spot, isn’t it?”

He wants to point out that he’s never actually been inside that building himself, but the look on Leliana’s face shuts him up. “Of course,” he says instead.

Briala and Leliana seem to engage in the complex Orlesian performance art of saying goodbye to each other without coming off as too rude or too polite; Cullen uses the free time to down the rest of his glass. As they leave the room, Lavellan raises her hand in a small wave to him. The warm spice of ale travels slow into his chest, and he raises a hand back at her.

Once Briala and Lavellan are comfortably out of sight, Leliana rounds on him. “What did you find out?”

He stares at her for a moment. “About Lavellan?”

Leliana’s patient pretense falters. “About _Briala_. You were talking for a while, surely Briala must have come up.”

“Not really. And even of she did, I don't think anything groundbreaking is going to come out of her college-age assistant.”

“Briala is asking her girl the same questions, I can guarantee it. Just the smallest detail could ruin someone's life. Briala knows that better than anyone.”

“I'm telling you, we just talked about work and school.” At her impatient look, he continues, “Are you honestly surprised that someone who moved to New Haven this month gave me no information?”

She looks like she’s about to berate him again when something gives her pause. “Wait. She got her internship with Briala less than a month after she moved here? That’s barely enough time to even apply for it.”

It still feels like she’s accusing him of something. “I mean, it usually took an intern at the IBMA two months between submitting an application and starting work, but—”

“Which means they would have known each other even before Lavellan left Wycome. Perhaps there is more to the assistant than I thought.” A twinge of satisfaction passes over her face. “This is good. You should try to dig deeper when you show her around the MG building.”

“If you want information on Briala so badly, why don’t _you_ just talk to her?”

She blinks long and slow. “You’re kidding, right? Celene Valmont is one of the top donators to Justinia’s campaign! If word got out that the Prime Minister’s Left Hand is consorting with the assistant of the woman who ruined Celene’s reputation, that reelection is as good as gone.”

Cullen rubs at his forehead, mumbling, “Okay, okay, fine. Maker’s breath.”

“Besides, Briala knows me too well. You’re the only one of our immediate group who has a believable excuse to spend time with her assistant.”

The kneading rhythm of his fingers stops as the implication hits him. “Am I performing an investigation or going on a date?”

Leliana’s mouth quirks. “That all depends on whether she has information to give. Now, you should probably catch up to where Justinia is, before you ignite more gossip.” She smiles that infuriating smile and walks away from the bar, leaving him alone.

The bartender couldn’t have heard their conversation, but the look on Cullen’s face must give him away. “Another Kondrat, buddy?”

He nods without saying another word.

  


⌽⌽⌽

  


Daytime operations are uncommon. The extra exposure of the sun and the precarious condition of their secret identities better hidden in the dark means it’s usually not worth it to suit up before sundown, but it’s inevitable that emergencies happen at inconvenient times. So when Nightingale alerts them of a high-level hostage situation in the abandoned warehouse on Fifth and Orchard at three in the afternoon, Cullen and Cassandra are forced to drop everything and go.

They travel in separate vehicles this time, hoping to get a handle on the situation as soon as possible. It’s too bright to grapple between buildings, so Cullen takes one of Nightingale’s discreet sedans.

“Are the police already there?” he asks the Seeker over his radio.

“ _There’s no one here. It looks empty._ ”

The street is still vacant when he parks next to the Seeker’s motorcycle, near the only entrance.

The inside of the warehouse looks like it wasn’t even cleared out in time, with several sections of shelves still stocked with cardboard boxes and assorted wooden crates left in various stages of decay. Aside from their weighted footsteps, there are is no noise, and no indication that anyone else is there. As Cullen and the Seeker look at each other, he gets the feeling they both know what’s going on. They’ve been in this situation often enough that the thought comes easily.

They’ve walked into a trap.

“ _Finally._ ”

He pulls a taser gun from his belt. Next to him, the Seeker molds lyrium into razor sharp spikes in the palms of her gloves.

From one of the beams on the ceiling, an elf lands onto the crate in front of them. She's wearing a discordant combination of homemade uniform in patchwork reds and yellows, a black leather mask covering her mouth and messy eyeliner smudged around her eyes. Shaggy blonde hair in an uneven bob hangs loose around her face.

“Another agent of the Dread Wolf?” the Seeker wonders aloud.

“The whosit?”

Cullen exchanges a look with his partner. “We… got reports of a hostage situation.”

“Yeah, made that up. Took you long enough to respond, even if it was all fake.” She takes the assault rifle off her hip and leans it on a shoulder. “Name’s Red Jenny. Been watching you from the internet. Wanted to come see what all the fuss was about, maybe join in on the operation you’ve got going with Miss Seeker and Commander Tight-Pants.”

“It’s just Commander, thank you.”

The Seeker calms the ridges of her lyrium gloves and crosses her arms. “Very… flattering, but the Inquisition is not interested in tryouts.”

“Didn't say it was a tryout. Duh. Unless the Inquisition needs people experienced with sending false distress signals. Could be useful, you never know.”

“Right, but usually in order to join a team like ours, you need experience or resources,” Cullen says.

“I’ve got experience. One time I rearranged the giant neon letters on the AM Titles skyscraper to spell out Lame Tits.”

“That was _you?_ ” the Seeker rasps out.

“And! And, me and my friends have access to things. Things like information. We’re, um… hacktivists? That’s the word.”

Cullen and the Seeker stare at her.

“That’s hacker activists, just made nice and short. Oh, and we’ve got guns. Good ones, not like those amateurs pissing around with semi’s, yeah?”

He isn’t sure he understands half of what she’s saying, but he’s confident enough to reply with, “We don’t kill people.”

“What’s the Marksman doing with you, then?”

“The Marksman is not in the Inquisition,” the Seeker says, irritated. “And if he was, he would use only approved tranquilizers and rubber bullets. And occasionally exploding bullets for any necessary structural damage.”

Red Jenny throws her head back and groans. “Fine, then. I can handle that. Boring stuff.”

Under his breath, Cullen asks the Seeker, “Are we seriously allowing this?”

She closes her eyes and makes a noise of disgust. “If the others have no objections…”

The wristwatch module on his suit lights up with a message from Nightingale.

_Don’t forget your appointment with you-know-who in an hour._

“Shoot,” he curses under his breath. “Seeker, I have to go.”

“Is it an emergency?” the Seeker asks.

“What? No. I have business elsewhere.”

“I can help you shoot that business full of bullets,” says Red Jenny.

“No, please don't,” he says, and as he walks backwards he calls to the Seeker, “I'll explain later.”

His nearest change point is three blocks away. With any luck, Lavellan is used to people being fashionably late.

 


End file.
